


Merry Christmas, Mr. Madarame

by GreyPigeon



Series: Godspeed You! Blue Emperor [3]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Bad Parenting, But also you can read it as Hurt/Comfort, Childhood Trauma, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Grooming, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Manipulation, Mental Anguish, Minor Character Death, Non-graphic description of a dead body, Public Humiliation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28000320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyPigeon/pseuds/GreyPigeon
Summary: The pupils standing in the corridor took a step back when Yusuke looked at them. They scattered unprompted.Yusuke’s hands balled into fists. He couldn’t stop his breath from coming in sharp, almost painful bursts, he couldn’t will his heart to slow down. He did the right thing. He wasn’t even close with Hajime-kun. He didn’t even like him. He did the right thing. Sensei needed a cover story. Sensei needed...Post Madarame's arrest, Yusuke faces the ghost of his senpai and is forced to question his own wrongdoing.
Relationships: Amamiya Ren/Kitagawa Yusuke, Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira, Kitagawa Yusuke/Madarame Ichiryusai, Kitagawa Yusuke/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: Godspeed You! Blue Emperor [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743862
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	Merry Christmas, Mr. Madarame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Armae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Armae/gifts).



> ~*~ As a gift to my precious friend, [Armae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Armae/pseuds/Armae), with whom I share a special bond, and though this story was not intended to be anything of the sort, it couldn't be anything else than a bow in your direction. Thank you for seeing me. ~*~
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTES:
> 
> Well, this was long overdue. I am still blown away by your reception of the first two fics in this series. I encourage you to read them if you want to fully understand what is happening here, but it is not exactly a must. 
> 
> Though I had part 3 of this series planned out and I started to write it, even, my muse had other ideas and this story was born through a couple of well-placed comments under the previous parts. Also, I had this need to come back to my "roots". So I'm back to traumatize Yusuke for you some more. Part 4 of "Godspeed" series should appear this year, or shortly after New Year's, since I have already started to write it. It's going to be much, much longer. 
> 
> Do heed the warnings. This really is a dead dove. But if you came here through my other works, then maybe you already know that, huh?
> 
> Please share your thoughts with me afterwards.

**MERRY CHRISTMAS Mr MADARAME**

**~*~**

The difference was striking. Just three days ago he was this mannerly, smiling older man, who would tip his hat to you on the street and respond to the season’s greetings with a weathered, warm rumble of a laugh. ‘Merry Christmas, Madarame-san!’ A pat on the neighbour’s shoulder. “Happy Holidays!” A court nod to the shop assistant.

Now, with the police rummaging through his atelier and terrified students crowding the corridor in their pyjamas, Madarame was a walking bomb with a very short fuse. Fidgeting incessantly. Hiding behind a nervous smile and doing his best not to snarl at the officers. Yusuke observed him from the doorstep of the closed-off bedroom, wisely keeping other students in check with an icy look. They didn’t dare to approach. 

“Madarame-san, I don’t understand,” the officer in charge shook his head, crouching on the floor over the cold, rigid body laying on the futon. “Was there no note? No letter? Nothing at all?”

“This is exactly how I found him,” Madarame muttered an answer, nervously tugging on the sleeves of his robe; he was pacing, tapping his chin with two fingers. “I called you as soon as I learned about this!”

A lie. A convincing one. 

Yusuke felt Nakanohara take a hesitant step away from the herded pupils, looking at Yusuke and opening his mouth like he wanted to say something. Yusuke pinned him with an angry stare; _stay back_. 

Nakanohara knew. It was really him who had found the body. In the early morning, he was rattling and rattling on the door to Hajime-kun’s room, hellbent to wake him up as usual. Nakanohara adored his senpai, followed him around everywhere. Always had coffee with him in the morning. Showered his style with continuous, genuine praise, similarly to the rest of the pupils, who religiously strived towards the goals Hajime-kun had set. Madarame watched contentedly, repeating a weathered phrase of how lucky he was; he could take pride in _Sayuri_ \- his greatest accomplishment - and Hajime, the greatest talent in his possession. 

It was Nakanohara who slid the unlocked door open, sick of waiting for a response that wouldn’t come, and saw him sleeping eternally. Beautiful. Raven-haired. Carefully arranged on the futon in a genteel pose, like a sepulchral statue. Cold and white like marble, already stiffened with _rigor mortis_. Two blister packs of pills lay neatly next to the futon, along with a handmade envelope and an empty bottle of cheap rice wine. He went like a hedonist, as exquisite in his death as he was in life.

Nakanohara’s lower lip was quivering. One more furious look was enough to make him back off and hide in between other students; Yusuke didn’t have the time to deal with the snivelling fool right now. Sensei was not only mad, which was a precarious situation on its own, sensei was _in trouble_. Yusuke had snatched the empty pill packaging, the goodbye letter and the bottle away before sensei saw it, before anybody saw it - except, of course, Nakanohara. The letter rested safely in the inside pocket of Yusuke’s hoodie, where he’d thrust it in panic while Nakanohara ran to wake up Madarame. The bottle he had tossed into his own room, hidden out of sight with his comforter. Natsuhiko was probably confused, not seeing any of these items in place now. A part of Yusuke vaguely understood why he would want to intervene; why he would feel like he had to tell everybody the truth. But Yusuke couldn’t have him start crying now or babbling about it _to the police_.

Yusuke simply knew better. 

“We will have to talk to your pupils,” the second officer said, his voice slightly muffled by the sound of a flash going off. A spasm went through Madarame’s face. “Maybe he confided in someone. Maybe he behaved strangely. One of them would know if he was going through something, right?” 

“Of course, of course,” Madarame replied hastily, regaining control of his expression. “My pupils are— they get along, but he would come to me if he was troubled… I don’t see why… Hajime-kun had a bad heart. A tragic accident— You have to understand..." He blubbered, shooting a look at the officer. The man just nodded, still taking notes. "This comes as a shock. Everyone is deeply shaken. I would want you to give them time to settle. I will not put my students through any more anguish.”

“No, but of course, Madarame-sensei.” The policeman agreed. “It wouldn’t be an interrogation, though—”

“—But why is he so bruised?” The man squatting next to the body hiked the boy’s pyjama up, revealing mottled, purple-green marks on his sides. 

“What?” The officer’s head shot up, and Madarame’s voice hiccuped over the same question. The world started to spin in front of Yusuke's eyes. 

“This is some deep bruising alright,” the man kept up his evaluation, gesturing for the assistant to snap another picture. “About a week old. What happened? Did he fall?”

Madarame opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, completely at a loss. He made no sound; his eyes darted to the sides.

“Madarame-san, this was your pupil,” the policeman frowned. “Was he in conflict with someone? Was he bullied?”

“I-I don’t…”

“It’s my fault,” Yusuke stepped into the room and four heads whipped towards him. “We got into a brawl. A-after school. We were alone.”

“Yusuke! What are you saying,” Madarame feigned outrage pretty well, but there was an unmistakable note of sheer relief in it. Yusuke stepped closer and took off the fraying woollen gloves with cut-off fingers; he wore them all the time recently, especially to bed and during painting. His hands would get too cold without them. 

He held out his shaking hands for the officers to inspect; his knuckles were raw. The officer glanced at the abrasions, then gave Yusuke a long, dubious appraisal.

“So you say you got into a fight,” The policeman started taking notes. The click of the camera followed, capturing the image of the bruised, torn skin. “When was this?”

Yusuke ran a rapid calculation in his head. When would their schedules merge? _Think_. “Last Wednesday. Past four.”

“Why?”

Not only Madarame and the officers were looking at him. Yusuke could feel several sets of eyes, blown wide, drilling holes into his back from the corridor. 

“Kitagawa-kun. Answer me.”

“We… disagreed about the principles of sensei’s tutelage,” Yusuke said loud and clear, letting his head hang in shame. Madarame sprung into action, grabbed both his hands, started to talk down to him with an animated, urgent tone. Yusuke didn’t pay attention to the exact words, it was enough that the timbre of his voice was just right. Disappointed, condescending. The officers exchanged the knowing looks of people who saw one problem child too many. _Good_. 

They covered the body, and the man with a camera left. 

“Look, Madarame-san,” one of the officers offered carefully, “Talk to your kid in private. The fight in question didn’t cause this, anyway. We’ll run the blood tests and autopsy all the same because we have to suspect… nevermind, this is probably an unfortunate circumstance, but it does look like a— Um. Oh well. Have you contacted his parents yet?”

“No, officer; I was— I was here all the time, I didn’t manage yet…”

Madarame was once again a good-natured, elderly art teacher, overwhelmed with a tragedy befalling one of his pupils and the misbehaviour of his own foster child. He projected such a perfect aura of misery that the officers paused to comfort him, offering their condolences and pats on his stooping shoulders.

“Thank you, thank you, gentlemen,” he kept repeating in between bows and compulsive tugs at the collar of his nightclothes as if he had no air. Yusuke caught up on that and quietly reminded him of his medication. “Yes, yes… gentlemen, please step into my office, we’ll talk some more and I’ll take the pill, yes— old age… please forgive me…”

“No need to apologize, Madarame-san. It’s freezing in here, isn’t it? How are you taking it with your circulation, sheesh!”

They left. The rest of the talk with the officers would take place behind closed doors.

The pupils standing in the corridor took a step back when Yusuke looked at them. They scattered unprompted.

Yusuke’s hands balled into fists. He couldn’t stop his breath from coming in sharp, almost painful bursts, he couldn’t will his heart to slow down. He did the right thing. He wasn’t even close with Hajime-kun. He didn’t even _like him_. He did the right thing. Sensei needed a cover story.

Sensei needed…

Yusuke pressed into the corner as some other people in blue overalls came up with a folded stretcher to carry Hajime out. Yusuke stayed there, trying to melt into the shelf and the wall, doing his best to appear invisible. One of the men noticed him and looked around confused, probably in search of an adult in charge. Hurried by his colleagues, he let it slide and got back to work. 

They hoisted Hajime up, the long, loose braid fell down his shoulder and dangled in the air for a second before the pitch black, impermeable vinyl of the body bag surrounded him, blocking out the light. The men left, slowly going down the creaky stairs; even after the sounds of their steps and voices were long gone, the harsh _zzzzzzip_ of the bag closing was blaring in Yusuke’s ears.

He tossed and turned; the covers were too thin and too thick at the same time, tangled around his limbs. Fabrics twisted, sheets lengthened, flexible bonds grabbed at his hands and legs and held him in place. He felt like suffocating, he was too hot. This sting, this awful sting in his abdomen, somewhere deep where nothing should have hurt was driving him crazy; thorns sprouted in his guts and they kept growing, expanding, rearranging his insides. With a particularly harsh jerk, he bit his tongue and the inside of his cheek. The ring of the silence was getting unbearable; the bedroom, all beige and barely furnished, started to swim in front of his eyes, dissipating into a washed-out, pale palette of similar, well-known interiors, gliding before his eyes in a slideshow. The classroom. The kitchenette. The subway. The physician’s waiting room. The bedroom again.

The focal point of an empty futon with ruffled, white sheets remained, no matter the background. If Yusuke leaned down, ran a hand through the folds of the fabric, through the mended patches of the comforter, he would probably still feel the body warmth. He... did. He could. He did. Hajime was downstairs, he was just making coffee. He was leaning on his elbow, his absurd, raven hair almost sweeping the surface of the countertop. He was laughing into his coffee cup; talking to… talking to…

Yusuke was standing beneath the plum tree in the backyard, ankles deep in pristine snow. The branches swayed, shedding soft petals on a moonlit night.

 _“Keep it,”_ Hajime-kun said. His yukata was red, blood red, right side wrapped over the left. He stood perfectly still behind Yusuke; an inch taller. A shade paler. A year older. 

“Keep what?”

 _“Keep it,”_ Hajime touched his chest. Yusuke felt a weight settle over his heart, where the letter sat hidden in his pocket. _“Don’t throw it away.”_

Yusuke woke up with a start, unable to breathe over the dead weight in his lungs. 

**~*~**

Yusuke’s fingers were hovering above the ‘dial’ button on a cheap phone that Ren Amamiya bought him with the Phantom Thief funds. He stared at the row of kanji signifying the name, wondering if he truly could call. Ren had specifically said, call anytime, but it was 4:45 in the morning. 

He put the phone down. He shouldn’t. It could be potentially unwise. It could be misunderstood. It wouldn't be good.

Yusuke did his best to wipe the cold sweat away from his eyes, to concentrate on breathing. It was a dream; just a bad dream. It meant nothing. Dreams happened to anyone, especially dreams about bad experiences, and Yusuke could still recognize this as a _bad experience_ , as gaslighted as he used to be. It should never have happened. He should never have told the lie which spared Madarame the trouble of explaining himself. 

_Once the police officers and paramedics had gone, Madarame called everyone to the living room and gave something akin to a speech. He ordered a day off from classes in the atelier, promised to call respective schools and justify absences. Gave his leave to call parents and friends, go out for the day or remain alone and undisturbed to process things. Then he called Yusuke out. Amongst confused glances and disbelieving gasps, he stepped forward._

_“Did you really get into a fight with Hajime-kun?” Madarame asked. His pale eyes were cold and determined; Yusuke could see it, predict how it would unfold. He had started it. Now Madarame would end it._

_“Yes.” Yusuke lied, loud and clear like before._

_“Why would you do such a thing?”_

_Yusuke’s eyes were shining. “Because he said you take his every painting, presenting it as your own.” He swallowed audibly. “And I know it to be a lie.”_

_Madarame punished him hard. Standing in the corner of the common area, the other kids watched in mortified awe, keeping to each other and trying not to react too emotionally as the foster son was ordered to kneel and take his socks off. Madarame took his cane in hand and whipped Yusuke’s feet - systematic, methodical thwack-thwack-thwack over the soles, and heels, and toes, until they were red, swollen and bruised. Yusuke didn’t cry, even though he wanted to. He catalogued the stares boring into him. Some appalled. Some fearful. Some openly hostile._

_One sympathetic._

_Once Yusuke was sprawled on the tatami on all fours, unable to stop twitching, and Madarame was satisfied, the students were dismissed. Yusuke was made to stand in the back corridor, next to the kitchen area and the_ _back door leading to the garden, facing the wall. In time-out._

Yusuke shuddered, inevitably recalling all that, violently raked both hands through his hair. His thoughts were a bullet train with a preordained destination, bound to crash, and he couldn't make it stop. He glanced towards the narrow window of his temporary dorm room; the light seeped gently through the dusty curtains, not enough to light up the room yet but heralding the upcoming day. He couldn’t find it in himself to welcome it. His mind pushed forward inexorably, forcing him to relive the rest, to replay all the events as they had happened, burned into the creases of his memory with far more detail than he’d like. 

_It wasn’t the worst punishment he endured, and he could tell that Madarame didn’t whip his feet too bad. Yet standing there alone, on the cold, cracked tile felt exceptionally cruel. Physically, he knew he could take it; he had welcomed the cold at first, soothing his overheated, hurting flesh. But as the day progressed and he kept his body continuously upright with nothing to occupy himself with, he started to break. The students were walking around the shack, minding their own business. They passed him by awkwardly as they came into the kitchen. Some went out. Most stayed in their respective rooms, quiet and aghast. No one said a word to him._

There had been nothing to do except to gaze through the glass bricks next to the decrepit, rusty door, watching the old plum tree creak in the wind. Hence the imagery, Yusuke thought, returning to his nightmare; blooming plums, a whirlwind of snow, a pale moon, huge in the sky. 

Curling on his side, Yusuke pulled the blanket up to his chin. He had long ago forgotten about the letter, the thick, grainy envelope of handmade paper containing who knows what. Yusuke never read it. He wasn’t about to read it now. It had only resurfaced, vaguely, when he was moving his things to Kosei dorms and decided to transfer the small shoebox with keepsakes in the first batch, along with essential textbooks, favourite art supplies and a few clothes.

The letter was still there, hidden between some postcards, a few small items of sentimental value a child would keep and a couple of thin, filled out journals. Why didn’t it appear in his dreams then, when Yusuke found it after all those years? Why now? Was his brain so overloaded that it had to compartmentalize and ration out the stress reactions over the course of weeks? Months? What else will come back to haunt him?

Yusuke stared at his knuckles, traced a sharp outline of his bones with a finger. 

_Nakanohara had come to talk to him, of course. Confronted him about the obvious lie. Yusuke was unpleasant, but never violent, and Nakanohara wouldn’t believe he had attacked anyone even if the evidence was there. But he knew it wasn’t. He'd seen Yusuke, rubbing his knuckles bloody on the wooden floor of his bedroom, shredding the skin on the rough edge of a plank, gritting his teeth and hissing in pain. All to stay awake, to stay focused, to force his brain into compliance with a single, intentional, directed stimulus. All to keep painting._

Maybe this was the way. Maybe that’s why Yusuke hadn’t been able to paint anything since Madarame’s arrest. Maybe it was this intense focus, this primitive tactic he had forgotten and which would allow him to arrange his mind, currently in shambles, into neat lines of order and agency. Yusuke let one of his arms reach out from his scrambled futon towards the concrete floor, tested the texture with a finger. Rough, like sandpaper. He closed his fingers into a fist and started grinding. It hurt. 

_Standing there had hurt. His feet felt like they were ready to burst, his knees were giving up, his spine was screaming. He stood there all day, motionless in a dingy little mudroom, fighting the exhaustion and burning in his stiff joints. He was not allowed a reprieve of water nor a helping of food. Once Madarame had sent a student to inform Yusuke he could go to bed, it was well past midnight._

Yusuke ground his fist harder into the concrete. It worked better than wood; he could already feel the warm, tacky feeling on his skin, he could recognize the familiar, sharp sensation tunnelling through him, from the fist up to his arm, through the shoulder and neck, only to embed itself in the void of his skull, just behind the eyes. He ground faster.

_He hadn’t bothered with a shower. He hobbled to the bathroom, relieved his aching bladder, splashed his face with cold water and climbed up the stairs to curl in his futon. Every joint in his body hurt, his throat had locked itself around mute complaints. The hot headache pulsated slowly in his temples, almost comforting in its presence._

_Madarame appeared soon after._

Yusuke hit his fist on the concrete; a dull, low thud was muffled by a mewl. He sat up abruptly, grabbed his phone once again, selected Ren’s name with his right hand and pressed the dial before he could change his mind.

One ring. Two. Nothing. Three rings. Yusuke gave a choked laugh and disconnected the call. He covered his face in knees, shaking quietly; _idiot, idiot, stop!_ What are you even supposed to tell him!? That Madarame came in the night to jerk you off as a reward? That he kept coming after? And tell about this _now_ , of all times, when Madarame was already _gone_? Insane! What would Ren even do, come here and sing you to sleep, concealing disgust with pity? You fool, what’s done is done, no amount of wallowing in it will ever change it. It was just a dream, there are more pressing concerns, you should sleep! Or if you cannot sleep, work. _Keep it shut,_ like you told Nakanohara to do. Take your own damn advice!

Nursing the bloodied hand, Yusuke draped the blanket completely over his head. His skin was crawling, mouth dry, the spit thick and bitter. Discomfort brought forward the thoughts of bare necessities: he had to buy toiletries, toothpaste included. He still had the money for that, at least. Unconsciously, still spiralling along with the thoughts - the images - he licked at his raw knuckles. A strung-out animal, nosing along the wire of a snare it could not remove. He lapped up the blood, sucked on the skin, pinched and rolled it between his teeth, and finally clean copper overpowered the bitterness. The half-painful, half-pleasurable sting of the wound turned his attention outward. Somewhere out. Hovering. Out.

The dawn found him unconscious and dreaming again, his phone buzzing idly with the fifth unanswered call.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the movie by Nagisa Oshima, "Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence" with splendid music by Ryuichi Sakamoto. The main theme bears the same title and is absolutely beautiful. 
> 
> I chose it for two reasons. I heard this music by chance in what ultimately proved to be an awful place, and it was like finding a precious flower. (This is, coincidently, my own interpretation of Yusuke's life in Madarame's shack.) Secondly, the connotation to Christmas, which is now approaching as I am writing this. Let it be my input in fandom works for the upcoming holidays. I hope you'll be disturbed.
> 
> Any other interpretation of this story in relation to the movie in question is not intended, but of course you may wish to read it differently. The story doesn't belong to the author any more as soon as it is published, so you're free to draw parallels, however I didn't necessarily put them there.


End file.
